War Pains
by Mandelene
Summary: After an entire year of serving overseas, Alfred is finally coming home. Now he just has to remind himself how to be an ordinary member of society again as his two extremely worried brothers monitor his every move.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This request comes to you guys from **toboewhisker** on Tumblr! Enjoy!

* * *

Let it be established from this day forth that Alfred F. Jones can take care of his goddamned self. He's nineteen-freaking-years-old, a grown man by law, and last time he checked, that's old enough not to need a babysitter, especially not after he's been at war for nearly a year.

So when Matthew, his normally docile and companionable twin brother, drops the bomb on him during one of their sporadic phone calls, Alfred can't believe his ears.

"You want me to _what_?"

"Al, you can't just go back to your place in New York next week. You've been away for so long… You need someone to stay with," Matthew explains, remaining calm. "The worst thing you could do is be home alone."

"Fine, if you're so worried, I'll just crash at your place for a bit," Alfred suggests, sticking a piece of gum into his mouth in a feeble attempt to relax. His leg begins bouncing up and down rapidly in frustration.

"You know I'm going on a business trip, and it's too important to miss."

"More important than your brother?"

"Of course not! Don't say that! If there wasn't any other alternative, I would cancel the business trip in a heartbeat, but you might recall that you have _another_ brother that's been absolutely worried sick about you."

" _Half-_ brother," Alfred emphasizes, huffing.

"What's the difference? He cares about you, and he's been waiting to hear from you for six months now. Al, I know you two haven't been getting along lately, but you could've at least sent a letter letting him know you were okay. He shouldn't have to be calling me to make sure you're alive."

"Yeah, whatever. Don't let Arthur manipulate you into thinking he actually cares. He just likes having control over people."

"You don't believe that."

Alfred shakes his head and scoffs, still stunned that Matthew would even think to put him in this position. "Let me get this straight. You want me to visit my _lovely_ ,big brother Arthur—the same brother who was totally against me joining the Marine Corps in the first place. _Arthur_? Shit, he'll be delighted to see the cast on my leg. He'll probably even say I deserve it for volunteering to serve."

"He wouldn't."

"If you seriously think that, then you don't know him as well as I do."

"Al, he _loves_ you. Of course he didn't want you to serve. He didn't want to see you hurt," Matthew reasons, pleading for Alfred to understand. "He'll be able to take care of you until you're back on your feet again."

"Just because I have a broken leg doesn't mean I can't handle everything by myself. I'm home for good now, Matt, and believe it or not, I remember how to function like a normal human being."

Matthew sighs but refuses to relent. "It's not just the broken leg I'm worried about."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing… Please don't make this any more difficult than it has to be. I've already spoken with Arthur, and he thinks it's a good idea, too. You'll be boarding a flight to London next Friday, and he'll pick you up from the airport."

"No."

"Al, please."

"No, Matt. You can't make me do this."

Matthew makes a disgruntled noise and swears under his breath before composing himself again. "Look, if it turns out to be awful, you can call me, and I'll cut my trip short, okay? At least give this idea a chance. Trust me. Arthur's not a bad guy. You guys used to be so close—closer than we are now. Why can't it be like that again?"

"We're different people now," Alfred mutters, pursing his lips into a thin line. Thinking about Arthur always makes his blood boil, and now is no different. He'd rather not let his thoughts dwell on the man for too long.

"Alfred…"

Uh-oh, the full first name is never a good sign.

"He's hurting, too," Matthew whispers, and he's using that sad tone of voice that makes Alfred want to punch a wall.

He's not going to give in. Not today. Not ever. Not…

"Okay," he sighs loudly, running a hand through his perspiring hair. "Fine. I'll stay with him for a little while, but the second he pisses me off, I'm calling you, all right?"

The cheer in Matthew's response is obvious. "Oh, God, thank you! I promise it won't be so bad. I'll call Arthur right away."

"Yeah, have fun with that."

"I'll check in on you when you're in London, okay? Try not to be too miserable over the whole thing."

"I can't promise that."

"All right. Awesome. Cool. This makes me really relieved, Al. It's going to be okay. Arthur will be happy, too, I'm sure," Matthew rambles, and Alfred can imagine him all giddy and smiling in person. "Talk to you soon."

"See ya."

The line goes dead, and Alfred drops the phone in his lap with a heavy groan. What did he just agree to?

He'd better strap himself in for a grueling ride.

* * *

Baggage claim at Heathrow is worse than enduring the blistering heat in Iraq. Not only does his luggage get misplaced—he has to stand around idly for over an hour before the airport's staff finally finds it. He's pretty sure he looks quite awkward in his military fatigues and thick cast as he's kept propped up by his crutches. He attracts a lot of curious glances, but he pretends not to see them.

One kind man offers to help carry his bags, but Alfred politely declines the offer and makes his way out to the main entrance of the terminal, where he sees crowds of families waiting for their loved ones. He searches for a head of blond hair and a pair of bushy eyebrows.

"Alfred!"

He sucks in a breath and suddenly remembers his unit in Baghdad. There were children running, and someone to his right screamed. He had turned around to see old Greg, his best friend, staring blankly up at the sky, following a little black bead slice through the clouds—airstrike. He'd heard his name being shouted and then—

"Alfred?"

There's a hand on his shoulder, and Arthur's standing right in front of him, eyes oddly swollen around the edges.

"Let me help you with those," Arthur says, grabbing his two duffel bags. "The car is parked just outside, so you won't have to walk far."

Alfred blinks and soundlessly lets himself be led toward the exit, still a bit disoriented from the sudden flashback. A moment later, Arthur's helping him into the passenger's side and loading his things into the trunk.

"I was beginning to think you had missed your flight. I've been waiting for two hours," Arthur says as he slides into the driver's seat and starts the car. "You must be hungry. Would you like to stop for food?"

It's hard to focus on what's being said to him, but Alfred manages a timely reply. "I ate on the plane."

"Ah, all right. Then, we'll head straight home, yes?"

The conversation wanes there, mostly because Alfred can't be bothered to pretend to be enthralled by Arthur's presence. He leans back into his comfy seat and listens to the soft rock playing on the radio instead. It's been a while since he's been able to hear some good songs, and it's a darn shame because he really does love music.

Arthur, the idiot, keeps trying to get him to talk. "It's been far too long, Alfred. Far too long."

"Mm," Alfred hums, really not in the mood. "Not long enough."

Arthur pretends not to hear him and plasters a smile on his face instead. "It's good to see you."

"Arthur?"

"Yes, lad?"

"Shut the hell up."

Somehow, since they've last spoken to each other, Arthur has developed the patience of a saint. "Now, now, there's no need to be upset. I know things have been… shaky between us, but I'd like us to start on a clean slate."

"Yeah, not gonna happen," Alfred grumbles, rubbing at an aching spot on his head. "Let's just get one thing clear, I'm not here for you. I'm here for Mattie. Next week, I'll be back in New York, and we can both go back to the way it was and pretend we don't exist."

Arthur clicks his tongue in disapproval. "If you keep up that attitude, this is going to be a very long stay for you, I'm afraid."

"Yeah, whatever. I don't need you to treat me like some kid or psychoanalyze me, Arthur. Or, should I start calling you Dr. Kirkland? Mattie tells me you've been busy now that you've got that fancy practice of yours. How'd you even find the time to deal with your dear little bro?"

"You're not fooling me with your apathy."

"Sure, because you can read everyone like a book, can't you? That's one of the perks of being a psychiatrist."

"It might surprise you to hear this, but I'm only trying to help, Alfred," Arthur states firmly, patience finally thinning. He pulls the car into a driveway, and cuts the engine with a sigh.

Alfred takes a second to regard the house. He hasn't been here before—Arthur just recently got himself this new place, and it looks like a typical European residence with a little garden out front. He grabs ahold of his crutches and makes a point of getting out of his seat without Arthur's help before hobbling his way up to the front door.

Arthur takes his bags out of the trunk and lets him in, and almost at once, a portly tabby cat with yellow eyes dashes up to Alfred and brushes against his leg, purring.

"Winston missed you," Arthur says with a gentle smile, and Alfred doesn't have the heart to shoo the sweet animal away.

"Hey, Winston, old buddy. Arthur's been treating you right, I hope. Giving you the good canned tuna, right?" Alfred coos, scratching behind the cat's ears.

Winston meows again in response and takes a few paces forward to greet Arthur as well, shoving his head into his owner's ankle. Arthur pets him briefly and then returns back to the matter at hand.

"Now, unfortunately, all of the bedrooms are upstairs," Arthur announces with a frown, looking pointedly at Alfred's injured leg.

"It's fine," Alfred retorts, already climbing the stairs to prove he's capable of doing so. He takes the guest bedroom that Arthur directs him into and studies the prison he'll be stuck in for the foreseeable future. He still can't believe he let Matthew talk him into this. He's too much of a pushover at times.

Arthur sets his bags down, straightens up to his full height, and asks, "Do you need help unpacking?"

"No."

"Right then. Can I get you anything?"

"Nope."

Arthur clears his throat uncomfortably, puts one hand on his hip, and says, in a defeated tone, "Well, if you need anything I'll either be in my study or the other bedroom."

He leaves, and Alfred lies back on his new bed, jetlag catching up with him. He hasn't had a decent night's sleep in a while, and it wouldn't hurt to just rest his eyes for a second or two. He folds one arm behind his head, wiggles around to get cozy, and before he can stop himself, he's dozing off for a nap.

* * *

There's something fuzzy on his chest.

Something that shouldn't be there.

Alarmed, Alfred cracks his eyes open and sits up, startling Winston, who had been using his body as a pillow. It's then that he also notices the blanket pulled up to his waist. Funny, he doesn't remember covering himself up.

Winston jumps off of his chest and down to the carpet to stretch his kitty paws. He really needs to work on eating smaller portion sizes. He must be at least six pounds heavier than when Alfred last saw him, and he's pretty sure that's not good for a fully grown cat.

"You're just curvy, aren't ya?" Alfred jokes, running his hand over Winston's tail. "What's your owner up to, huh? Probably being his usual grumpy self. How do you put up with him?'

Winston gives an appreciative meow and strides out of the room.

Alfred yawns and gets out of bed, pausing only momentarily to locate his crutches. He makes his way out to the hallway and sees that the door to Arthur's study is closed, meaning he must be hiding away in there.

Good, that gives Alfred the chance to explore and figure out what to do with himself. It's only about three o'clock in the afternoon, and his mind is horribly confused by this five hour time difference. Ideally, he should try to prepare himself some lunch, but his stomach hasn't been very agreeable for the past few weeks, and he doesn't know how it'll handle being fed anything other than the packets of ready-made meals the military has been providing him with for months.

In that case, he could do with a good shower instead. He's got a cast protector in his luggage to keep his leg from getting wet, and after searching for five minutes, he finds it. All set, he finds the bathroom and closes the door behind him before stripping. He slips his foot into the cast protector, takes his glasses off, turns on the water, and carefully gets into the bathtub, chiding himself for not finding himself a stool or something else to sit on. No matter, he can stand as long as he makes sure to brace himself on the wall.

Squinting through his terrible vision, he finds a bottle of shampoo and picks it up. He opens the cap and pours some into his palm, and as he does, he loses his balance, and the leg that isn't injured comes sliding out from under him. There's a brief sinking feeling in his stomach before his butt hits the bottom of the tub and his head knocks against the spigot on the wall rather painfully.

Water pelting him in the face, he tries to at least sit up, but everything's unbelievably slippery. He flails a hand upward to turn off the water, but that's when the door to the bathroom comes swinging open, and a new sinking feeling of horror and dread replaces the first.

"Don't come in!" Alfred shouts, but it's too late, Arthur's already in the bathroom and gaping at the mess he's gotten himself into.

To his credit, Arthur doesn't stand around in shock for long. Within a couple of seconds, he turns off the water, draws back the shower curtain, and has two hands on either of Alfred's shoulders to pull him up into a seated position against the wall.

"What happened?" Arthur demands.

"I-I slipped," Alfred offers lamely, feeling stupid. Here he is, sitting naked and injured in front of the last person he wants to see.

Thankfully, Arthur tosses him a towel before continuing the interrogation. "What did you hit? How's your leg?"

"The leg's fine."

"Did you hit your head?"

Alfred flushes and directs his gaze to the opposite wall. "Maybe a little?"

Arthur makes an exasperated sound and rushes out of the room before returning a minute later with a small bag of ice. "Here," he says, pressing it to the back of Alfred's head. "Hold this in place. How hard did you hit your head?"

"Pretty hard."

"If I have to bring you to the hospital on your first day back—!" Arthur growls but never finishes the thought. Suddenly, he darts out a hand and grasps Alfred's chin, forcing him to look at him. He scans Alfred's eyes for a moment, and when he's satisfied, he lets him go and glares. "You could've warned me you were going to shower."

Somehow, even after all of this time and after facing countless enemies on the battlefield, Alfred still finds himself feeling intimidated by Arthur. His elder brother is nine years older than him, but at the moment, it feels like that number is closer to fifteen years. It's like Alfred's just a young boy again, being reprimanded for playing basketball in the house.

"You're taking baths from now on. No more showers," Arthur states, and Alfred feels too humiliated to protest to being bossed around. "Do you feel dizzy or disoriented at all?"

"No."

"Good," Arthur sighs, before turning on the water again, running a bath this time.

"You can leave now," Alfred murmurs, but his brother doesn't seem to have any desire whatsoever to go.

Arthur readies a stern look at him. "I'm not going to leave you alone in a tub of water with a potential concussion. I'll wash your hair. You can do the rest."

This is beyond degrading. If only Alfred had his cellphone right now. He'd be calling Matthew to get him out of here at once. This is madness.

"You really don't have to do that."

"Shh," Arthur says sharply, working a sudsy lather into his hair. "Be quiet."

Alfred shuts his eyes so that he doesn't have to witness any of it. He feels Arthur's fingers rubbing circles into his scalp, mindful of the newly forming welt on his head. If he just imagines he's getting his hair washed at the barber's shop, it doesn't feel as shameful.

That is, until Arthur cups some water into his hands and pours it over his head to rinse it.

Sudden panic overtakes him, and he gets an irrational sensation of drowning. The water dribbles down his face and nose and, oh God, he can't breathe. He's going to drown. Water. Days without it and then so much that it bloats his stomach and makes him sick. Drowning, sinking, not enough air.

Arthur dunks his head into the water, and Alfred lashes out, swatting his brother's hands away. He snaps into an upright position, gasps for breath, and chokes on the oxygen in his lungs as it refuses to be exhaled. He thinks he's hyperventilating, and the world goes blurry even with his glasses on. He remembers a lakebed, brown with sand—an oasis in the middle of nowhere. He was so thirsty he poured the stuff down his throat and then was agonizing over a sore stomach for three days. Sand everywhere. In his mouth, chest, stomach, blood…

"Hey, hey! Alfred!" Arthur exclaims, bringing him back to reality. "It's all right! You're all right!"

But Alfred still can't breathe. Everything hurts like when that house collapsed, and he was trapped under the rubble for eight hours, waiting for death.

Arthur looks at him with worry and says, "Easy, now. You're okay. Take a deep breath."

Alfred tries, he really does, but no air gets through, and the corners of the room are fading to black.

"Breathe with me," Arthur tries instead, exhaling loudly and slowly. He waits for Alfred to copy him, and when he does, he inhales the same way. Together, they repeat this little exercise five or six more times, and Alfred, admittedly, feels better. "In… out… In… out."

His awareness returns to him, and Alfred's panic attack halts as quickly as it sprouted up.

"There we go. Much better," Arthur says encouragingly, relieved, but there's an expression on his face that makes Alfred squirm.

So, he knows. He knows Alfred's slowly losing his mind and has been returned home with some faulty parts. He's broken. Malfunctioning. And he's only going to be a nuisance to everyone who's unlucky enough to be caught around him now.

"Alfred," Arthur begins seriously. "You should've said something. This… This can be treated."

He's fairly certain he's going to die of embarrassment at this rate. Here he is, being helpless, little Alfred again. The same Alfred who went to such great lengths to prove he could manage his own affairs. The Alfred who flung himself into war and expected not to come back with scars.

Arthur finishes washing his hair, and Alfred scrubs himself clean before drying himself and hastily changing into some sweatpants and a t-shirt. When that's done, he returns to his bedroom, shuts the door completely, and collapses onto the bed.

Time to call Matthew to get him out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Hello, everyone! Sorry for the hiatus that lasted a few weeks, but I'm finally back with a new chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

Running, running, and then falling like dominoes.

An Iraqi boy once asked to see his gun, so he'd shown him how to load it and line up a shot. He let the kid fire at a wooden barrel, and then, out of nowhere, the boy's mother came rushing up to them and shouted something in Arabic before coiling a hand around her son's wrist and dragging him away.

But it's not the boy being taken away that made Alfred upset. It was the look the mother gave him. She seemed both terrified and disgusted, irises wide and glowing with fear.

It wasn't her fault. She had every right to be afraid. War makes fickle friendships. One day an American soldier is playing with the children. The next day, the kids are in the line of fire.

And yet, when he pictures the boy's look of intrigue radiating back at him, Alfred can't help but feel like a monster. How many innocent lives have been lost thanks to him? How many kids has he left parentless?

Some will say he shouldn't feel like he's responsible for all of the people who have been hurt—he was only following orders.

But Alfred doesn't see how that justifies anything. The Nazis were under orders once. Does that mean they should've all gotten away with the horrible things they did?

Being in London is making him sick. It must be. He was just dandy on the plane, but now he's nauseous, his body feels twice as heavy, and there's an incessant headache banging against the front of his skull. There's also a twisting sensation in his gut as if someone is wringing him out like a towel, and he can't stop thinking about how there's a war still raging on out there. It's a war no one seems to be paying any mind to.

The gray eyes, the caved in roofs, the orphaned children, the black skies filled with burning diesel fuel to make hitting targets by missile more difficult—he couldn't have imagined them. It happened. It's real. He has seen the destruction firsthand, so why doesn't anyone care? It's like he's been dropped onto another planet.

One thing remains clear—he wants to go home, wherever home may now be. All he has to do is convince Mattie to take him seriously, so when the swelling bump on his head doesn't hurt quite as much as it did several minutes ago, he gives his brother a call.

"Alfred, slow down and explain everything again," Matthew prompts him over the phone, and he feels even worse when he hears the worry in his twin's voice.

"There's nothing to explain. I'm done here. I knew this was a bad idea."

He can't stay in this house any longer with Arthur. He _can't_. There's too much going on at once, and it's like any second now the ground will swallow him up. He can't think straight, and having Arthur around is doubling his stress levels.

"But what happened? Did Arthur say something to make you angry?" Matthew asks, and he's such an idealist for thinking everyone could be all rosy cheeked and happy with one another—for thinking Alfred could ever forgive Arthur for the things he's said and done. How innocent and naïve.

"I just need to go home, Matt."

"Al, you've only been there for a few hours."

"A few hours has felt like days, and I—"

A knock at the bedroom door makes him flinch, and he presses his cellphone against his shoulder in an attempt to keep Matthew from overhearing. He knows too much as is.

Arthur appears in the open doorway a moment later, stern-faced but eerily calm, and it isn't the first time Alfred has seen him like this. He's been on the receiving end of the man's disciplinary tactics before, and he isn't looking forward to anything that's potentially in store for him today.

"May I come in?" Arthur asks.

"I'm on the phone."

Somehow, despite Alfred's efforts, Matthew still hears everything and asks, "Is that Arthur? Let me talk to him."

Left without much of a choice, Alfred grumbles sulkily and holds his phone out to Arthur, and it's like he's in high school all over again, enduring his big brother's lectures after coming home late and hanging out with the bad crowd in his grade. "Matt wants to talk to you."

If Arthur is surprised by the news, he doesn't show it. He merely takes the phone, raises one of his prominent brows, and says warmly, "Hello, Matthew, dear boy. How is the business trip coming along...? Well, I'm pleased to hear it… Yes, Alfred's been having some trouble getting settled in, but that's only natural… Yes, I understand his concerns, but I would strongly advise against it that. He's in no condition to return home at the moment."

"I'm right here, you know," Alfred growls, but Arthur doesn't even spare him a glance.

"Everything is under control here, I assure you. In fact, we were about to discuss dinner plans… All right, I'll make sure to let him know. I'll talk to you soon."

The phone call ends, and Mattie leaves Alfred hanging just like that. When did his sweet brother become so savage and heartless? Has he really been away for that long?

Arthur hands him his phone back with a new frown. "You're not going anywhere," he says plainly, "not like this."

Alfred takes the chance to feel insulted. Why does everyone suddenly think they have the right to decide what's best for him? "Like _what_? I'm fine. Stop butting into my personal life," he fumes. At least Arthur hasn't changed. He's as bossy and demeaning as ever.

"You're not well. Must I remind you of the panic attack you had no more than thirty minutes ago?" Arthur says, voice softer this time. He strides over to the bedside and crouches in front of Alfred, just like he would always do when they were younger.

There had been a phase when Alfred had considered Arthur to be more like a father than a brother, but it's been so long that he hardly remembers those days. All he can think back to are the ugly arguments, the slamming doors, the yanking and shoving, the screams of "please don't go," "you're throwing your life away," and "they'll bring you back in a coffin."

He remembers getting on the bus to training, and how Arthur didn't come to say goodbye.

"Alfred, listen to me."

"No."

"Don't be stubborn."

"I'm not stubborn."

Arthur smirks, and it's hard to hate him when his voice is so quiet and sympathetic. "It's okay to not be okay. You don't have to conceal it, not with me."

Alfred glares. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Arthur slumps his shoulders and smiles wistfully, eyes roving over Alfred's sullen face. He regards him for a moment longer and says, "Matthew said to tell you to finally eat something. Any idea what he meant by that?"

"Nope."

"Well, then, how about we go and find a good place to have dinner? I, for one, feel famished, and there are a few things I'd like to discuss with you further."

Alfred knows his stomach still isn't too excited by the thought of food, but if he declines to tag along, Arthur will fuss over him even more.

Matthew got clued in on the situation a few weeks ago. He knows Alfred has been eating smaller and smaller portions of his ready-made meals. It has been both mentally and physically exhausting to eat the same glop of spaghetti and meatballs out of a plastic packet loaded with triple the carbs and sodium of regular food. Out in the barren desert, one loses their appetite quite quickly when they're so drenched in their own sweat that their uniform is plastered to their skin.

What are these "things" Arthur wants to talk about anyway? Why can't he outright say what's on his mind?

But, on the bright side, maybe a little sightseeing wouldn't hurt.

It's not Alfred's first time in London, but for reasons he can't explain, the city isn't the same as he once remembered it. It's bigger, busier, and louder, or maybe he's not used to seeing so many people in one place anymore. If London's this bad, New York must be worse.

Arthur takes him to a restaurant within walking distance, and although Alfred wouldn't admit it even if he was being held hostage at gunpoint, the walk itself drains him of most of his energy. He should be used to serious amounts of physical exertion, but ever since his leg decided to fracture in two places, moving has become a constant chore.

Fortunately, they're seated right away at a table in the corner, just behind the bar. It's fairly quiet, and Alfred is grateful for the silence. He picks the first thing that catches his attention on the menu and then sips at the sparkling water the waiter brings a minute later. He makes it his personal mission to look at everyone and everything except Arthur.

For someone who has things to discuss, Arthur doesn't seem in a hurry to say anything. He just sits there, leaned back against his chair and content. He manages not to say a single thing until the food comes, and Alfred wonders if this is some kind of psychological game Arthur is playing. He's pretty convinced it is. Psychiatrists can't be trusted, even if they're family.

Arthur goes about eating his salmon and watches Alfred's plate of grilled chicken with intense curiosity, eyes narrowed.

And then, he finally speaks.

"Alfred, lad, is there something wrong with the food?"

Alfred scrunches his nose and frowns. "No. Should there be?"

"You haven't touched it yet. It's been in front of you for nearly ten minutes," Arthur notes.

Whoa, has it really been that long since the waiter left? Alfred could've sworn the man was here a few seconds ago. He blinks at his now lukewarm plate, and his stomach gurgles unhappily at the sight. He checks his wristwatch, and yes, he's been staring at his food for precisely ten minutes—eleven now.

"Is everything all right?" Arthur continues questioning him, though Alfred's sure the man has all of the answers already.

"Huh? Yeah, I just—" Alfred lifts his fork, takes a stab at a piece of grilled chicken, and forces it into his mouth. Chewing it is painful, and it's not unlike the time ol' Greg dared him to take a bite out of a fried locust (a local delicacy). He'd had an iron digestive system back then, and Greg had to cough up fifty dollars as a result.

Now, it seems like his digestive tract is hypersensitive to everything. One bite of the chicken reminds him of the skeletons masquerading as children in Mosul—starving and weeping. He'd given them his damned spaghetti and meatballs a few times.

He pushes the plate back, stands up, and hobbles straight to the men's room to puke.

Arthur bravely follows him, keeping a few feet of distance between them as Alfred hurls himself into the nearest stall and mostly spits up saliva and bile. When he's done, he turns around and sees Arthur holding out a wad of moistened paper towels for him to take.

"Better? Let's go back to our table, so you can have a drink of water," Arthur suggests.

Not against the proposition, he follows his elder brother out of the bathroom and finds his seat again, averting his gaze to the floor.

"When was the last time you ate?" Arthur asks after a minute or so, bringing up the dreaded question.

He bites his lower lip and tries to come up with a reasonable excuse, but there isn't one he can think of on the spot.

"You said you ate on the plane," Arthur reminds. "That wasn't true, was it?"

"Didn't Matt tell you already?" He hisses, agitated. He's been more short-tempered than usual as of late, but he only mildly regrets projecting onto the man.

"I want to hear the truth from you. I want to help, but I can't do that if you keep hiding things like this from me."

"I didn't ask for your help."

Arthur sighs, and his expression turns somber. "What did they do to you?" he whispers, more for his own benefit.

Nothing I didn't already do to myself, Alfred thinks, but doesn't say anything.

And then, before Alfred can wrap his head around the notion, Arthur is out of his chair and _hugging_ him, hard. He has one hand on his back and another on his head, cradling him.

"When will you finally stop scaring me? I—I'll make this better, I promise," he mutters before letting Alfred go, and Christ Almighty, Alfred can't remember his last, real hug.

The physical contact is enough to give him chills, and when he looks down at his hands, he can finally see how bony his fingers have become, stripped of all fatty tissue.

He is, much to his displeasure, sick. In more ways than one.

"Friday," he rasps after a while, letting his defenses fall.

Arthur tilts his head to the side, wanting to understand. "Pardon?"

"Friday is the last time I ate. It's Sunday."

"Enlighten me. How did this all start?"

"It's a long story."

"I have all of the time in the world."

So Alfred closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath, and allows himself to explain. It's been a while since someone has offered to listen to him, and at this point, he'll ramble to anyone, even if that person is Arthur.

He tells him about the vast desert that dries up all of the life in any person that tries to conquer it, and how after months of exposure to arid heat, just the suggestion of food is sometimes enough to make him hurl. It's like having a fever and being spoon-fed hot mash. He eats out of necessity and never out of pleasure, which is the complete opposite of what his dietary habits were before the war.

And now he's out of the desert, but for some reason, it still hurts to eat—physically hurts. His stomach is relentlessly bloated.

Arthur just nods his head through it all and doesn't interrupt or give any verbal response to anything Alfred says. He's been completely expressionless since their impromptu hug, and Alfred goes off on a few tangents before finally finishing with a long sigh and taking a sip of water.

"So that's pretty much it," Alfred murmurs, hands toying with the corner of a napkin. "It's stupid, I know…"

Arthur raises an infamous brow and says, at long last, "It's not stupid."

Alfred waits for him to say something else, and when he doesn't, he bites his lower lip and laughs awkwardly. "Yeah, I dunno… It's whatever, I guess. Everybody comes back a little nuts from the military, and I'm not so bad off."

"Mmm," Arthur hums noncommittally.

"Look, I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job or anything, but isn't this the point when you should be offering me some advice or something? That's what people pay you for, right? To tell you about their problems, so you can give them meds, and they'll either get better or just get high," Alfred says, perturbed by how little Arthur is reacting to all of this.

Arthur curls his lip in distaste. "My job consists of quite a bit more than that, I daresay."

"Yeah, yeah… So, what do I do?"

"Nothing."

Alfred scoffs, skeptical. "Nothing?"

"Yes. The first thing you need to understand is that there are matters in this world that are out of our hands—beyond the extent of one individual's power. In order to accomplish that, you must be able to take pride in doing absolutely nothing. For example, you and I cannot control the outcome of war. There is virtually nothing we can do," Arthur states, eyes focused on Alfred's restless hands still fiddling with his napkin. "I know that's not something you wish to hear."

"No, it's not. I don't agree with you. Our actions matter because they're the catalyst for other things."

Ever-so-gently, Arthur reaches a hand across the table and places it on Alfred's twiddling fingers, stopping the nervous tic in its tracks. "Self-awareness is the antidote to wanting control… Let's go back to the house. It's getting late."

Alfred blinks, draws back his hand away from Arthur's, and watches the man stand up to grab his coat. "You just don't get it. You haven't seen the things I've seen."

Arthur drops some money on the table and replies, "No, I haven't."

* * *

Sleep is another subject that doesn't bode well with Alfred, but he gets ready for bed anyway when Arthur brings them back from dinner, still wishfully thinking that maybe he'll get to go home in a few days. Maybe Mattie will take his call for help to heart and book him another flight. It's unlikely, but the human spirit is always full of hope.

He changes into some comfortable clothes, crawls under the covers provided for him, and scoots over when Winston decides he wants to have a slumber party in his room for the night. With a fluffy kitty pressed up against his torso to keep him warm and a good dose of jetlag, he drifts off within minutes, first dreaming about nothing at all before diving into his usual nightmares of being sucked up by quicksand and watching a young boy with legs like twigs racing away from him.

He dreams of the sky splitting in half and black rain dripping down onto his hair and face—oil. It's so thick and gooey that he can't wipe it off, and the more he rubs it away, the more oil there is, covering him in layers until it's in his chest and he can't breathe.

And then he springs upright in bed and wakes up, shaking and cold even though he's been sweating. He turns to his left and sees Arthur towering over him with concern.

"You were screaming."

"S-Sorry," Alfred says, because it seems like the right thing to respond with. He's certain Arthur is going to work tomorrow, and now he's just keeping him up unnecessarily. As much as he doesn't like his brother, he doesn't want to be a thorn in the side of someone else.

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault. Does this happen often?"

He nods. "At least once a night."

Arthur looks at the clock on the nightstand and then back at him again. "Six minutes. You were screaming and thrashing for six minutes."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"You would've been disoriented if I had, and you might have hurt yourself, Winston, or me in the process."

"So you just stood there and watched me flip out?" Alfred asks, not sure how he feels about the man's decisions yet.

"I made sure to stay by you until the fit had ended, if that's what you're asking."

Alfred runs his hands over his sleep deprived eyes and tries to get comfortable again, but his head is aching, and it's becoming harder and harder to ignore it. "Aren't there any meds you can give me to make it go away? You should know all about this kind of stuff."

"No, I don't generally suggest medication for night terrors, especially not for patients displaying symptoms of PTSD, such as yourself. It doesn't treat the root of the problem," Arthur replies, and Alfred feels somewhat disappointed. "There are other treatment methods that are more effective."

"What other methods?"

Arthur perches himself on the edge of the bed and says, "I'm about to show you. First, close your eyes."

"You're not gonna do anything creepy, are ya?"

Arthur huffs and sighs. "Try to be mature for at least a few minutes."

Alfred snickers but obediently closes his eyes.

"Thank you. Now, I want you to recall everything you remember from the dream. What were you doing? Where were you? How did you feel? You don't have to tell me the answers, just consider them on your own."

"…Okay. Now what?"

"Now I want you to think about how you would have liked the dream to have played out. Again, try to think of as many details as possible. Put yourself in that moment," Arthur coaches him.

He thinks of the running boy coming back toward him, and the oil turns into cool, sweet water, just cool enough to be refreshing without making one cold. It's like a summer drizzle, light and harmless.

Arthur reaches for something on the bookshelf above the bed and says, "Excellent. Keep your eyes closed. I want you to clear your mind now and try to relax. I'm going to read you some poetry."

Unable to help himself, Alfred snorts with laughter. "Seriously? That's what people pay you so much money for? To read to them?"

"Do you want to get a restful night of sleep or not?" Arthur snaps before flipping a little book of poems open. "Lie still and don't think about anything."

In the course of less than two days, he's gone from seeing silver bullets pierce the air to listening to the brother he's disillusioned by read him poetry. What a jump.

" _There is another sky,_ _  
_ _Ever serene and fair,_ _  
_ _And there is another sunshine,_ _  
_ _Though it be darkness there;_

 _[…] Here is a little forest,_  
 _Whose leaf is ever green;  
Here is a brighter garden,  
Where not a frost has been;  
In its unfading flowers  
I hear the bright bee hum:  
Prithee, my brother,  
Into my garden come!"_

Alfred yawns ungracefully and flops onto his side, minding the cast on his leg. "That's kind of pretty. Who is it by?"

"Emily Dickinson. I would've expected you to have known that. Don't they teach poetry in schools anymore?" Arthur says dryly.

"Well, yeah, they do, but I didn't really pay attention."

"Really? I would have never guessed."

"Your sarcasm never ends, does it?"

Arthur brushes that question aside and says, "I'll give you something for your headache."

Admittedly, Alfred is surprised. "How did you know my head hurt?"

"You've been creasing your forehead every time you speak. That, and you hit it just a few hours ago, so it was bound to give you trouble."

Arthur disappears and then returns with two pills that look like some brand of ibuprofen. Alfred gladly swallows them both and guzzles them with water, already feeling a little less horrible. He yawns and presses his cheek into his pillow again, hoping to sleep through the remainder of the night but not crossing his fingers.

As the pain behind his temples subsides slowly, Arthur gives him a pat on the shoulder and says, "Goodnight. Let me know if you need anything or feel worse."

Alfred mumbles some kind of gruff, half-hearted reply, and is already floating off to his realm of nightmares.

Distantly, he hears Arthur pull the bedroom door to a close and say, "You're going to be all right."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note** : We're looking at about five chapters in total for this story. I'm looking forward to it, and I hope you are, too! Enjoy, and thank you for the support thus far!

* * *

Monday morning starts with a text message from Matthew.

Alfred's just changing out of his pajamas and into something more socially acceptable (although he's beginning to realize acid-washed jeans and a hoodie can often be frowned upon in Europe for reasons he cannot fathom) when he sees the notification on his phone.

 _"Hope you're hanging in there. I'll call you as soon as I get out of my conference."_

Hmph. Alfred doesn't bother gracing his twin with a response, especially not after how unforgiving he's been in terms of these housing arrangements. He expects some semblance of an apology, or at least an acknowledgement of wrongdoing on Mattie's part.

He stuffs his phone into his pocket and ambles downstairs for breakfast, taking his time because it would really suck if he broke his other leg and had to be wheeled around looking like a mummy for six weeks.

Arthur, being the obnoxious early bird he is, is already up and getting ready to leave for work. To Alfred's surprise, he's dressed business casual—a dark blue button-down shirt, khaki slacks, and leather oxfords. He'd expected to see a white coat or stereotypical psychiatrist-esque outfit meant to reflect authority, but Arthur looks like an average guy on his way to a cubicle in an office. Weird.

"Breakfast is on the table," the man says, completely neutral when he sees him. He doesn't bring up any of the events from yesterday, and Alfred's unspeakably relieved by that.

"You shouldn't have."

Really, he shouldn't have. Alfred definitely hasn't forgotten his elder brother's atrocious cooking from when they were younger, and he wants no part in anything edible that's been tainted by the man's hands.

Arthur gives him a scrutinizing sidelong glance as he's straightening his cuffs and replies, "Make sure you eat everything on your plate."

Oh no. If his stomach wasn't feeling at a hundred percent before, there's no conceivable way he'll survive this stay now.

He's tempted to tell Arthur to just eat the stuff himself, but doing that would leave a bad taste in his mouth. Loath he is to admit it, Arthur has been pretty accommodating thus far, and it would be more than a tad rude to give him sass today. After all he's done, Alfred knows he should be willing to give the man a little credit in spite of their differences.

And so, Alfred forges his way to the kitchen table and braces himself for whatever might be on his plate, lips already pursed with disdain.

"Oatmeal," he says to himself, thoroughly stunned because the bowl of mush actually smells fine and looks precisely as it should. Next to the oatmeal, there's a banana and a glass of milk innocently staring back at him.

As soon as he sits down, Arthur comes hovering behind him and repeats, pressingly, "Eat every bit. It's bland enough that it shouldn't make a reappearance."

Alfred grimaces. "Is this what they feed people in the hospital?"

"At times. This is the diet my patients suffering from eating disorders are put on."

"I don't have an eating disorder."

Arthur sets the kettle for some tea and looks away. "No, perhaps not to that extent, but this should help nonetheless… I'll be leaving in a few minutes, but I'll be back before dinner. I've left the number to my office on the fridge, as well as the number and address to my unit at the hospital for when I'm on call. There's also a note on the counter detailing what you should have for lunch."

It's at moments like these that Alfred wonders if Arthur knows he's nineteen and not five.

Disregarding the peeved expression on Alfred's face, Arthur continues, unfazed. "If you want your situation to improve, you'll have to follow a strict eating schedule, so I'd like you to have a snack—fruit or a cereal bar—at ten o'clock and lunch at half past noon. There's plenty of food here, but you can eat out if you'd like, just don't deviate from the diet plan too much, all right?"

That's a lot of information to take in at once, but Alfred's sure Arthur has written everything out in great length on the note, so he doesn't worry about memorizing anything. "Okay, dude."

"And if you do go out," Arthur adds, not finished quite yet, "please text me your location or call. The last thing I need is for you to get lost or injured in the city with that broken leg of yours."

"I can manage being on my own for a few hours, Mom."

Arthur huffs, unconvinced. "You'll have many opportunities to prove yourself, in that case. If there's an emergency, and you can't get into contact with me, come down to the office. And if it's a dire emergency, remember to call 999 and not 911."

It's both grating yet somewhat endearing to have Arthur fretting like this, and Alfred has to remind himself to be irritated.

"Yeah, roger that."

"Very well… Eat," Arthur orders as the water in the kettle comes to a boil. He makes himself a cup of impressively strong black tea in a disposable cup, offers Alfred some, and then grabs his coat when the offer is declined. He drops a pair of spare keys next to Alfred's elbow on the table and makes his way for the door.

"I'll be back soon. Don't get into any trouble," he declares.

Alfred smirks into his glass of milk. "I'll try not to, just for you."

When he's finally gone, Alfred munches three bites of oatmeal and tosses the rest out before consulting his phone for some cool spots in the city.

* * *

Boy, oh boy, it's been way too long since he's had some wholesome fun, and by wholesome, he means the not wholesome whatsoever.

He'll be damned if he wastes an entire trip to England without so much as getting himself a drink and chatting up a pretty girl. He's of legal drinking age here, and he's planning to take full advantage of that luxury, because soon he'll be back in New York and forced to ask someone to buy booze for him, and it's just not the same.

The only downside is that it's way too early in the day to be buzzed, or so he thinks. Apparently, it's not unconventional to be at the pub from dawn to dusk in this side of town. All the better.

There's a cheap-looking pub not too far from Arthur's place, and although Alfred's not too sure about the currency exchange or how much more valuable a pound sterling is than a dollar, he has an approximate idea and vows not to blow all of his money in one sitting.

The bar is fairly empty. There's some kind of soccer match on the TV screens hanging from the wall, but it must not be a big game because no one seems to be paying much interest to it. An international friendly match between Honduras and Chile doesn't rally much excitement when it's being broadcasted during work hours, thanks to the unfortunate time difference.

And because it's empty, there aren't any girls mucking about. Why would there be? Girls have things to do. They have careers and boyfriends and lives to live, unlike him. Here he is, technically unemployed and lounging around like a nobody as he waits for some kind of miraculous spark of excitement or joy to break him out of this dull white noise that his young adulthood has become. He's only nineteen. He should be partying, going to college, perfecting his aim for beer pong, and finding new and inventive ways to be responsibility-free and ignorantly blissful for as long as possible.

But no, not Alfred F. Jones, product of a broken marriage and less than perfect childhood. He was never the brightest child or talented at much of anything. The only accomplishment he can pride himself in is having served his country. He won't be amounting to anything else now that he's back.

He orders himself a lager and rests his forehead against the cool glass of his beverage, sighing. Arthur would definitely have his panties in a twist if he knew where he was, which is why he can't bring himself to text the man his whereabouts like he agreed he would.

What he doesn't know won't hurt him. Besides, he's probably busy at work and has a million other things to think about then his mentally unstable brother.

Somehow, everything Alfred does feels so tedious, almost as if there's a hundred pound backpack perpetually slung over his shoulders. That must be why Arthur has been treating him like he could shatter at any second—crack and slip to the floor before he can be caught.

Arthur warned him of this. He said his life would never be the same. War takes and never gives back.

As fate would have it, the bartender forgets how well-polished the countertop of the bar is and drops a glass as he's cleaning up. A spine-chilling noise fills the pub as the glass breaks.

 _Breaking windows and a crying baby. Sparkly shards imbedding themselves into the soles of his feet and glittering in the sunlight._

It triggers another panic attack. Alfred's heart hammers violently against his ribs, and he's suddenly very lightheaded, struggling to sit upright. The bartender gives him a funny look and asks if he's okay as he's collecting the debris in a dustpan, but Alfred's so disoriented he can't tell if the words being spoken to him are real or imagined. He pushes back his lager, grips the edge of his chair with his hands, and pleads with his body not to collapse. Not here. Not with these strangers as witnesses.

Someone touches his shoulder, and he swings his head around instinctively to look at them, leaning into the touch. It's an older man with streaks of white hair and ghostly blue eyes. His face morphs and contorts in front of Alfred, both real and unreal at the same time.

 _Greg. Quicksand. Gray eyes._

He falls out of his chair and onto the ground cheek-first. He faints briefly—it's no longer than five seconds—and when he opens his eyes again, there are three men standing over him, fanning his face and asking him questions that don't make any sense.

Someone takes off his glasses and shoves a cup of orange juice against his lips. He drinks it because the rational part of his brain is just beginning to restart again, and his heart has calmed even though he's covered in a fresh sheen of sweat.

"Pull yourself together, mate. What was in that drink?" another person says.

"He still looks peaky."

"Help me sit him up."

"Christ…"

He shudders and slowly comes back to his senses, swallowing hard against the dryness of his throat.

"Are you okay?"

The question hovers over him and waits impatiently for an answer, until Alfred finally gets his mouth to work again and mumbles, "Yeah, thanks."

How awkward, he thinks, brushing himself off before stumbling to his feet as someone hands him his crutches. He drops some money on the bar table, blinks the cloudiness out of his eyes, and shrugs off all of the worried looks and concerned inquiries. He has to leave, quickly.

Is he going to keel over every time he tries to go out in public now?

It's no use. He goes back to Arthur's place because knowing his luck, he'll drop dead if he attempts taking a stroll in the park or buying a shirt at the mall today. Better play it safe from now on.

As soon as he makes it past the front door of the house, he heads for the living room and collapses on the couch, oddly exhausted like he's been running all morning. His temples are aching again, so he rests his eyes for a moment, smiling softly when he feels Winston pounce onto the couch and squish himself between his arm and the cushions with a merry purr.

"I wish I could have your life, bud," Alfred says, cracking one eye open to look at the cat. "All you do is take naps all day and eat. I'll pass on the tuna catnip though. How do you eat that stuff?"

" _Mrrrrow_."

"Arthur tells me he's going to put you on a diet soon. The vet says you're pre-diabetic."

Winston snuggles closer to his side without a care in the world, rolling over to get more comfortable. His left ear twitches briefly.

"You don't know how lucky you are. You've got a nice house, an owner who takes care of everything for you, and he even cleans up your poop. Not every human would be willing to do that, you know."

" _Rrrooow."_

"Sometimes I wish I had someone like that—without the poop part of course. It's good to know you have someone you can count on. Of course, I've got Matt, and I guess Arthur wouldn't want me dead either, but… I feel like I make everything difficult for everyone. They have their own lives and things to do, and what right do I have to interfere with that? Matt's got an awesome business internship, he's in school, and he's been going out on a few dates lately, I think. Arthur's a doctor, and he's working at the hospital, plus he has his own practice. What do I have? A crappy apartment in New York that I share with a random roommate and can barely afford. I haven't even lived in it for over a year. My parents are dead. I don't have a girlfriend. I don't even have a cool cat like you. I don't think I'm ready to go to college. I don't even know if it's what I want. Maybe I should just go back to war. It was easier that way… Or maybe…"

Everything burns—his eyes, nose, ears. He bites his lip to keep from making noise as he cries, stomach crawling into his throat. Something hurts, but he isn't sure what. He just feels the pain in each nerve ending and every muscle. He thought he couldn't feel pain anymore. At least, not this kind of pain.

A sob escapes him, and Winston lifts his head up to look at him, taken aback. The cat nuzzles his face into his neck and clearly tries to make him feel better, but it doesn't work.

" _Meeeoow."_

"I-I'm sorry…"

Winston climbs up onto his stomach, tail dancing behind him as he cocks his fuzzy head to the side and tries to come up with another solution. He stares at Alfred for a long time, as if willing him to stop his incessant crying, and for a second, Alfred wants to burst out laughing because the glint in Winston's eyes is remarkably familiar to that of his owner's.

They stay in that position for a long time, and Alfred dozes off under Winston's ever-watchful gaze, feeling silly for being so emotional.

In his dream, he's hanging off the edge of a cliff, and someone reaches out a hand to him, but it's too far away for him to grasp. He stretches his fingers as far as they will go, and then he slips, falling to the bottom of the ravine.

* * *

"Alfred? Alfred, answer me."

His head hurts. A lot. He barely finished one drink, so he can't be hungover.

"What?" he asks as he wakes, eyes now swollen from his previous crying fit.

"How long have you been sleeping for?"

His brain doesn't feel like functioning today. "I dunno, around one, I think? What time is it now?"

"Six o'clock in the evening."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh," Arthur retorts flatly, before pointing to a garbage bag in the doorway. "You didn't eat breakfast this morning."

Yeah, he definitely should've tried pouring the oatmeal down the drain, but it probably would've been worse if he had clogged the man's pipes. "Wasn't hungry…"

"Have you had anything else to eat today?"

That's a trick question, isn't it? There isn't a right answer. If he says yes, Arthur will ask for more details and yell at him if he's not able to provide them. If he says no, Arthur will still yell at him.

"Alfred, I'm waiting…"

"No. I haven't eaten anything."

Arthur clicks his tongue, shakes his head violently, and mutters something under his breath. "I won't watch you spiral into depression, do you understand me? You're going to get up off of this couch and eat, right this minute."

He'd really rather stay right where he is.

"Matthew sent you here for me to take care of you, not let you waste away. Get up. I won't say it again. Nothing good will come from loafing about."

"My head hurts," Alfred whines, grappling for any excuse to get Arthur to leave him alone.

"I'll give you something for it once you eat something. You shouldn't take medication on an empty stomach."

Arthur shoves his crutches in his face and helps him up, shooing Winston out of the way in the process. Once Alfred's standing, he escorts him to the kitchen and has him sit down by the table, still fuming but managing to contain most of his anger.

Less than a minute later, Arthur puts a plate of brown rice, broccoli, and fish in front of him, entirely unseasoned. The broccoli has been cooked to the point where it's mushy, and just looking at the meal makes Alfred feel like he's in the hospital.

"I can't eat this."

"Why not?"

"I don't feel hungry."

Arthur hands him a glass of water and takes his seat at the other end of the table. "That's irrelevant. Eat."

"But—"

"If you don't eat, you'll have to be admitted into a rehabilitation center and given a feeding tube. I doubt you'd enjoy that option, so eat," Arthur says coldly. He's having dinner as well, but his plate looks quite a bit more appetizing.

"Why can't I have what you're having?"

"Because you'll be sick if you do. You need to start with plain foods, and Alfred, I will feed you if I must."

"Oh, God. Please, no."

Arthur smirks deviously and turns on the radio, lightening the atmosphere as Alfred has to give himself an inward pep-talk to look at the food without gagging.

It's just food. He loves food—used to, anyway. It's a normal necessity for sustaining life, and people do it at least three times a day, so if they can do it, so can he.

He stuffs a forkful of rice in his mouth and chews it, ignoring the sensation of fullness in his stomach.

"Slowly, now. Take as much time as you need," Arthur cautions, eyes narrowed in thought.

Right… Small bites.

" _Meeeeoow._ "

Arthur turns his attention to the fuzzball on the ground and says with an unamused tone, "Winston, you have your own food. You know where your bowl is."

" _Mrow."_

Winston rubs himself against Arthur's leg affectionately, trying to win him over but failing.

"Hey, pal, you can have some of mine if you want," Alfred offers, and Arthur sends him a dark glare.

"No, absolutely not."

Alfred shrugs and pouts at Winston. "Sorry, man. The boss says no."

He's only halfway through his meal, and he honestly thinks he's not going to be able to eat another bite without taking a trip to the bathroom. His woeful expression must be obvious because Arthur takes a good look at him and frowns.

"All right. You can leave the rest," he allows before producing a bottle of pills out of his pocket and passing one to Alfred. "That's for the headache."

"Thanks…"

"They're stress headaches, if you were wondering," the man adds. "Now that you've finished eating, I want to discuss where we go from here."

"That doesn't sound good."

"I'm going to need you to be a little more enthusiastic, _and_ I need you to be completely honest with me. If you continue to lie and withhold things from me, I won't be able to help you effectively, and you'll feel even worse. Are we at an agreement?"

Alfred sighs, and scuffs his socks against the floor. "Yeah, sure."

"Very convincing," Arthur drones. "I'm going to state this as bluntly as possible because I need you to understand the severity of your situation. Either you allow me to help you through therapy, or you will need to be put on a regiment of medication. You cannot realistically continue without treatment and expect to see improvement. You are displaying signs of both PTSD and clinical depression, and I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to leave here without knowing you are actively pursuing treatment. If you won't accept my help, I can refer you to seek help elsewhere, and it is likely you will then have to be admitted into a treatment facility."

"Obviously, I don't want to go anywhere else."

"So, then you agree to cooperate with me?"

Alfred purses his lips and gives himself a moment before deciding to hand himself over to Arthur. He wants to cherish his last seconds of freedom. From here on out, he's going to have to go along with the man's schemes or risk Mattie finding out and sending him to a hospital. Besides, although he won't say it, he does want to feel better, even though he acts difficult about it. "Yes."

"Okay," Arthur says with a nod of the head. "I'm going to hold you to your word then."

The man rummages around in his bag for something and then slides it over to Alfred's side of the table. It's a leather-bound journal. "You'll be writing in that daily—once in the morning when you wake up, and once right before you go to sleep. I won't be reading what you're writing in it, but I will be checking to make sure you've been writing."

"Seems kind of pointless to me. What's a journal going to do?" Alfred asks, dubious.

"You'll trust me and do as I say," Arthur replies with ease, already moving on to the next matter. "I will be monitoring all of your meals, as you can't be trusted to do it yourself. Of course, I won't know if you have eaten while I'm at work, but believe me, I will _find_ out. I know all of the tricks of the trade, lad. I will post an updated meal plan on the fridge each morning, and you'll have a picture of it sent to you by text message. Also, we'll be having therapy sessions every night in the living room right after dinner, starting tomorrow."

Alfred looks down at his lap and smiles tiredly. "Wow, sounds like bunches of fun."

Putting his masterful sarcasm to good use, Arthur grins menacingly and says, "There's the enthusiasm I've been waiting with bated breath for."

"What's therapy gonna be like?"

"Not as awful as you're probably imagining it will be," Arthur assures, serious now. "I don't bite. Not yet."

"Do I have to talk about my problems?"

"Partially, yes."

"In that case, do I get to talk about you?"

Catching the iciness in the question, Arthur strains a smile onto his lips despite the tension between them. "Yes, we'll be talking about all of _that_ as well."

"Okay… Arthur? I want to talk about it… About us."

Something in Arthur's mood shifts, and he slumps his shoulders slightly. "Yes, I suppose it's about time."

"Sorry for bringing it up. I shouldn't—"

"No, no, you have every right to. I wish to discuss what's been going on between us as well. It'll do both of us good," Arthur insists, easing Alfred's fears about reigniting sour feelings. "I admit that I've made some mistakes as well, and I may have said things that I shouldn't have… But we'll discuss that later."

This isn't going to be easy, and Alfred's sure they both know this.

He's also sure they're both going to go through with it anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

He used to believe in the good in people. Human nature, in his opinion, was inherently pure and kind, but war has made him cynical, and it's hard to think there is goodness in the world when he has seen so much pointless death and madness. The things people will do to each other over differences in creed, race, or ideology continues to horrify him.

And the worst part is that he's no exception. He looks in the mirror and struggles to find the good as well. He is a stark shadow of what he used to be. He is darker, colder, and angrier. He has dealt senseless pain. He has killed people.

They could have been people with families and bright futures, but they were caught up in the crossfire of politics at work. They raised guns, and he raised one back.

But it didn't feel like self-defense.

Alfred translates this internal monologue to Arthur during their first therapy session because he needs to get his thoughts out into the open for once, and he wants to see and hear how the man will respond.

Not unexpectedly, Arthur doesn't say much. He listens and gives occasional nods of the head or hums of understanding to let Alfred know he's still following along to everything, but other than that, he doesn't question any of Alfred's actions or respond with his own viewpoint.

Alfred considers outright asking for Arthur's sentiments on whether what he did was justifiable or not, but he already has a hunch he won't get much of a response. He's learning that psychiatrists seldom say what they think because they're supposed to be impartial, but Alfred's not pleased with it. He wants to hear either validation or criticism. It'll help dig him out of the hole in the ground he's been trapped in, for better or for worse.

"I get it now, you know," he says once he can take Arthur's silence no longer. He purposefully drags the man into the conversation. "You were trying to protect me. You didn't want me to go to war, and you had your reasons. Still, you didn't have to give me the cold shoulder like you did."

Arthur clears his throat and frowns. He struggles to respond, but he does eventually come up with a satisfactory reply when Alfred gives him a pressing look. "I was upset. We both were. I didn't think you realized the life-changing decision you were making. Originally, I distanced myself from you because I couldn't stand to watch you leave. I later recognized it was a foolish decision on my part, and I tried to contact you, but you wouldn't respond to any of my letters. For a while, I feared the worst—that you had..."

Arthur pauses and shakes his head, letting the thought trail away in order to pivot to another subject. "I reached out to Matthew because I thought he might at least know if you were all right. I called him incessantly for updates on your whereabouts and wellbeing, and he was understandably tired of my constant barrage of questions. I implored him to reason with you—to convince you to try to get into contact with me, only so I could hear your voice..."

He stops again, fighting to keep his composure because this is such delicate ground they're treading over. "I missed you terribly, and I was sorry for not being there when I was most needed. The fault is mine. Regardless of my feelings toward the situation, and how I didn't want to see you in that uniform, I should have seen you off, and I'm sorry. I spent nearly a year wondering, worrying, and praying to a God I no longer believed in that you would come home safe and sound. I told myself I was prepared for the worst, which, of course, wasn't true. When I heard from Matthew that you were finally returning, I advised him to extend an invitation to you to come here. I presumed… I _knew_ you would need someone to guide you back into daily life."

Alfred looks away from those green eyes staring back at him, feeling their honesty and pain. He didn't want to believe he could ever forgive Arthur for being callous, but he knows that if their positions were reversed, he'd have likely done the same. If Matthew announced tomorrow he was being deployed, Alfred would probably fight tooth and nail to keep him from leaving. He'd be terrified out of his mind, thinking about all of the things Matthew would have to go through and all of the occasions where his life would be at risk.

In that regard, he is no different from Arthur.

And now he knows he owes Arthur an apology as well, and it hurts to have to admit he was wrong on some level. All this time, he has been running away from the man, and now it's as though he's running back toward him with only half of his heart. The other half stubbornly wants to hang onto its grudge.

He bites his tongue hard enough that it hurts, swallows his darned pride, and says, "I forgive you, and I'm sorry… I didn't see where you were coming from until recently. I thought you just didn't care about me and wanted me to get hurt in the war, so I could learn my lesson, but I know now that you were worried, and I would've been worried, too. I know how hard it is to say goodbye to people and wonder if it's the last time you'll ever see them. It's one of the hardest things in the world, so I know you weren't ready to do it. You knew I could've died out there. I was young and thought I was invincible—I still am that way sometimes, so I didn't realize…"

With heavyhearted sluggishness, Alfred forces himself to get up, steps closer to where Arthur is sitting in an armchair at the other end of the coffee table, and smiles dismally at him, overwhelmed with sadness at how broken they have both become. "I… I've missed you, too," he murmurs, reaching out a hand to touch the man's shoulder.

Arthur is so surprised he flinches from the contact, but relaxes a second later. His head is slightly bowed and his eyes are glimmering with what Alfred swears are well-hidden tears.

"So, can I call you my big bro again?" Alfred asks, leaning down for a hug as butterflies fill his chest. It feels good to be making things right again.

In a rare display of playfulness, Arthur smirks and ruffles Alfred's hair, making it stand up in a dozen opposing directions. "Idiot… You don't have to ask."

Ahh, it feels awesome to be called an idiot again.

* * *

The therapy sessions continue, and slowly but surely, Alfred makes a significant amount of progress. He can make it through most nights without so much as a single nightmare, and his eating habits begin to show improvements as well, although now that he's eating regularly again, he's perpetually bloated—one of the trade-offs that comes with recovery from starving yourself for months.

It's uncomfortable and frankly fairly painful to constantly feel like he's full of gallons of hot air, but Arthur is good-humored about it, and so, whenever the man catches Alfred rubbing his bloated stomach and walking about like he's six-months pregnant, he merely smiles and makes light remarks like, "Have you decided on a name?" and "Is it a boy or a girl?", which always manages to distract Alfred from the pain long enough to smack Arthur over the head for his poor taste in jokes.

It's as though his stomach will erupt like a volcano. He's constantly belching, feeling nauseous and, oh god—talk about embarrassing. His body becomes a loud choir of rumbling bowel sounds, and he wants to die from the embarrassment.

Arthur promises him it'll stop in due time. He says it's a sign of recovery, but Alfred has yet to be convinced.

It is, admittedly, funny at times. Once in particular, even Alfred bursts out laughing when he lets out a loud burp on the couch, and Winston gets so scared he doesn't come out from under Arthur's bed for two entire days.

But there are other times when it's not funny at all, and Alfred is left agonizing over his sore, balloon-like stomach while curled up in bed. Arthur makes him swallow a whole bunch of apple cider vinegar to help with the pain, and it works to a certain extent. Thankfully, Winston isn't around to get scared again.

Sure enough, the infamous "bloat" does go away after another week, and Alfred can finally relish in the relief that comes with being able to eat normally. He's still on a strict diet 'round the clock to make sure he doesn't relapse, but the worst of the pain is a thing of the past.

There is, however, another stumbling block in the way of his goal toward becoming himself again.

Panic attacks.

Their frequency lessens over time thanks to the talk-therapy sessions, but they pop up sporadically, usually when he's out and about. Arthur takes him to London's Natural History Museum one morning for some fresh air and some "cultural exposure," as the man calls it. The visit starts off well, but in the barrier reef exhibit, something sets him off—he isn't sure exactly what. It might have been the perfume one woman was wearing because it was remarkably similar to something Alfred swears he's smelled before in an Iraqi bazaar.

Before he knows what's happening to him, he doubles over from the sudden discomfort of a series of heart palpitations and his breathing becomes erratic.

Almost instantly, Arthur has a hand on his back and leads him out of the exhibit and to a more open and quieter space.

"You're okay. I'm right here," Arthur comforts him, and Alfred lets himself believe his brother's words.

He tries to do the breathing exercises Arthur has taught him, but it's not as easy as he thinks it'll be. Arthur stands in front him to block any inquiring onlookers and keeps very calm as though panic attacks are completely normal fits to have.

"Inhale… Exhale," Arthur says, looking off into the distance as to avoid making Alfred even more uneasy by unintentionally gaping at him. "Oh, look at that lovely watercolor. Is that a flamingo? How exquisite," he mutters, peering over at the entrance to another exhibit.

Had he not been slightly hyperventilating, Alfred definitely would've rolled his eyes at that. He takes some slow breaths, grips Arthur's left forearm for moral support, and waits for the feeling of doom and anxiety to pass.

It lasts another minute or so, and then, Alfred is all right again. Arthur offers him a bottle of water, and they sit in the food court for a little while to collect themselves.

"Thanks," Alfred rasps when he's ready to continue with their exploration through the museum. "Let's get going."

"Are you sure? We can leave if you're not feeling up for this. Besides, I imagine this great deal of walking is taking a toll on your leg."

"Nah, I'm fine. Come on. You're not tired are ya, old man?"

Arthur scoffs derisively but gets up and follows Alfred's lead through a corridor containing the history of a number of tropical birds.

All in all, it's a pleasant experience despite the hiccup in fun, and the following morning, they call Matthew and relay the details of all of the interesting things they saw.

From what he recalls, Alfred only has one more major panic attack shortly after that event, and it just so happens to occur while Arthur is at work—on call at the hospital, specifically. This panic attack, unlike the others, proves to be the most dangerous.

This time, a helicopter passing by sends him struggling to breathe. He's on the stairs when it happens, and he is filled with an irrational need to escape.

 _Airstrike. Friendly fire._

He rushes down the steps, hobbling along, but it feels like he'll never reach the bottom.

 _Going to die. A screaming mother shields her child from a blast of debris._

One of his crutches gets snagged on something and he pitches forward. He snaps out a hand to catch the railing, but his extended fingers miss it by an inch. He somersaults down to the base of the staircase, and his leg flares up with a burning pain that's so strong and sudden that he lets out a startled cry.

Winston comes rushing up to him with eyes the size of saucers and his ears pushed forward, ready to attack and tear apart whatever is causing Alfred distress, but he's unable to find an enemy.

The horrific pain causes the panic attack to stop, but now Alfred's lying in a heap on the wooden floor with no one around. His crutches are scattered on the stairs above him, and he's too incapacitated to even try crawling up to get them.

Thankfully, he has his cellphone in his pocket, and he calls Arthur, feeling bad for having to disturb him and undoubtedly stress him out at work, but he isn't left with any other option. The phone rings and rings, but the man doesn't pick up. Presumably, he's busy.

He's just beginning to persuade himself to call 999 when Arthur finally calls him back, and he lets out a massive sigh of relief.

"Alfred? Is everything all right?" the man immediately asks when he picks up.

"Umm… Not exactly, but don't freak out."

Voice becoming higher in pitch with worry, Arthur follows up with, "What do you mean 'don't freak out?' What happened? Are you hurt?"

"Just a little," Alfred admits, biting his lower lip and squeezing his eyes shut as he waits for his brother to go into a full nervous breakdown.

"Are you in the house?"

"Yes."

"Did you fall down the stairs?"

Alfred blinks with astonishment. "How did you know?"

"I had a sinking feeling you would fall down those stairs before your visit was over," Arthur says humorlessly, and Alfred can hear shuffling movement on the other line. "Are you bleeding? Did you break any bones? Did you hit your head? How's the leg?"

"One question at a time, bro," Alfred sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. "I don't think I'm bleeding. I kinda hit the front of my head on the way down, and I don't think I have any other broken bones aside from possibly screwing up my leg even more."

"Can you stand up?"

"I'd rather not. I might fall again," he says with a growing sense of humiliation.

"Okay, stay put. I'll call an ambulance for you."

"No, please—!"

"Alfred, by the time I get someone to cover for me and make it to the house, you could be in a bit of trouble. I'll have them bring you to my hospital, all right? I'll meet you in the ER."

"But I—!"

"Relax, and don't move. Everything will be fine," Arthur insists. "Help is on the way."

The man hangs up on him, and Alfred lets out a long exhale of frustration. He's really not looking forward to being found in this position by people he doesn't know.

Ten minutes pass, and he blushes furiously when he hears the sirens of the promised ambulance followed by some pounding knocks on the front door.

"There's a spare key under the flower pot!" Alfred shouts, and they must hear him because the door is unlocked and two EMTs walk in—a young man and a woman in their mid-twenties.

"Hello," the man says cheerfully, crouching down right next to Alfred's head. "Quite the pickle you've got yourself in, huh?"

Alfred groans. How did he get so unlucky to be stuck with two of the corniest people in the entirety of the British Isles? "I could use a hand, man."

"Oh, you're American! Love the accent," the guy says, suddenly very amused. "I've heard Americans are clumsy."

"George, stop pestering him," the woman suddenly interrupts, pushing the man out of the way. "Here, love, let me see. This oaf has had one too many energy drinks today," she says softly, feeling Alfred's head for any obvious bumps or welts. "Okay, darling. Does your neck hurt?"

Alfred decides he prefers this kind woman instead and answers her questions, minding his language and his manners. "No."

"How about your spine?"

"Nope. That's fine, too, I think."

"Okay, great. George and I are going to try to move you onto a stretcher now," the woman announces before procuring a collapsible stretcher with foam padding on it.

She grabs him by the shoulders and George lifts him under his legs, trying to be careful around his cast. Within seconds, he's dropped onto the stretcher and feels a bit better now that he's lying flat and resting on a softer surface.

"I'm Mary, by the way," the woman says warmly before covering him with a blanket. "It gets chilly in the ambulance. Can you tell me your name?"

"Alfred."

"Okay, Alfred, let's get going. George will lock the door behind us."

Winston gives a meow of derision and hisses at the EMTs for trying to take his companion away, but Alfred waves him off and tells him to settle down.

"Sorry about that. That's my brother's crazy cat," Alfred explains sheepishly as he's carted outside and into the back of the ambulance.

"Not a problem, dear," Mary assures, rearranging a few supplies. She pulls out a penlight, checks both of Alfred's eyes, and asks, "Can you follow my finger, please?"

Alfred does as he's asked, but Mary doesn't seem satisfied because she makes a small humming noise and peels back his eyelids with gloved hands. "You definitely have a concussion."

Great. What other good news is he going to get today?

George closes the doors to the back of the ambulance and walks around to get into the driver's seat, and then, they're off. It's a short ride, but there's traffic. Nonetheless, they make it to the hospital within fifteen minutes, and Mary and George wheel him into the ER, trying in vain to keep his spirits up.

"Hey, spell 'aluminium' for me," George jokes, and Mary shoots him a warning glare. "What? I'm checking the patient's responsiveness, Mary. By the way, it _is_ aluminium, not _aluminum_ , as you silly Americans call it."

"Don't pay him any mind," Mary whispers before patting Alfred's shoulder soothingly.

He gets transferred to a bed immediately, and then, there's nothing left to do but wait for a doctor to see him and determine if he's going to get out of this relatively unharmed.

Mary and George say their goodbyes because they need to head back to the ambulance, and Alfred waves to them lightheartedly, allowing himself a smile. They're an odd bunch, but they were his odd bunch.

"There you are."

Alfred blinks rapidly to clear the blurriness out of his eyes and is both relieved and not to see Arthur. "Hey, there."

"I was bracing myself for something worse," Arthur says, shoulders sagging. "I'm glad to see you're mostly intact," he finishes with a short laugh.

"Yeah, it's not too bad."

"I've asked for the best physician on the unit to have a look at you. He should be here soon."

"Ooh, I get the VIP treatment?" Alfred chuckles, wincing when his head throbs in complaint.

"Yes, it's one of the perks of having connections," Arthur says before taking a look at Alfred's leg and glowering. "How did you fall?"

"Panic attack on the steps."

"Ahh, that explains it."

"It stopped the panic attack though."

"So there was a silver-lining after all," Arthur smirks. "Matthew is going to be very displeased with me when he finds out."

At the end of the day, Alfred gets discharged with a new cast on his leg because it ends up needing to be set again and strict instructions to rest and refrain from strenuous activity until his concussion goes away. Other than that, he's deemed perfectly fine and escapes without any new injuries.

He spends that same evening sprawled out on Arthur's couch, munching on some scones and watching T.V. for the better part of the night. When Matthew finds out about the incident in the morning, he books a flight to England for the next day and says he wants to see Alfred for himself before he injures himself further. Arthur knows better than to argue with the young man when he's so keen on doing something, but Alfred groans about how he's going to have two mother hens clucking over him now instead of one.

"Cluck, cluck," Arthur jokes cheekily, and Alfred launches a throw pillow at him, biting back his own laugh at how ridiculous the situation is.

That said, he hasn't seen Matthew in almost a year. His twin is well overdue for some brotherly love, and Alfred intends to smother him with it when he gets here.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Here's the last chapter! Thank you so much to **toboewhisker** on Tumblr for the request because it was so amazing to write, and thank you all for reading it!

* * *

He has to be normal when Matthew arrives, or, at the very least, he has to attempt normalcy. No more panic attacks. No more struggling to eat a proper meal. He has to be spick-and-span as well as the picture of health, anything less and his twin will have him under constant supervision until the day they cease to exist.

Plus, he doesn't want to be treated with pity or sympathy if Matthew finds out what a mess he's been lately. He wants nothing more than to be treated exactly the way he has always been treated, and his injuries and psychological failings don't have to change that.

When Arthur goes to pick up Matt from the airport, Alfred asks to go with him. Of course, the man responds with a resolute 'no,' seeing as he's not willing to let Alfred leave the house until a full forty-eight hours has passed since he was diagnosed with a concussion, possibly even longer if he finds a reason to believe he isn't completely well.

And thus, Alfred is left to wait impatiently on the couch with only Winston to keep him company. He sneaks the cat a few treats from the cupboard in the kitchen, tells him to embrace his curves, and then they watch a TV special on the islands in the South China Sea, which neither of them are particularly engrossed in.

"Hey, Winston, do you ever think about what you'll be doing a few years down the line?" Alfred asks the lazy cat with a lofty half-smile. "You'll be older and your naps will last even longer than they do now, probably. Hopefully, you'll shed those pounds and find yourself a nice lady cat—or man cat, no judgement—to spend your later years with. Ever thought of having a few kittens?"

" _Mrow."_

"Why not? You'd make a good dad," Alfred encourages him with a pat on the back. "I'm thinking I'll go to college like Mattie when I'm ready. As soon as this whole mental breakdown thing blows over, I'll get an education. It'll be good for me."

He waits for a response from Winston and doesn't get one, aside from a muffled purr when he rubs the cat's fluffy sides.

Two hours later, Arthur and Matt finally come traipsing through the front door, bearing Matthew's luggage and some takeout from some restaurant Alfred has never heard of.

He's inwardly grateful that they won't be going out to eat dinner tonight, and he wonders if perhaps Arthur purposefully planned it this way. It's still too soon for him to cope with the great deal of social stimuli from the city, and he doesn't mind staying inside a little more often than usual until his mind is more at ease and ready to handle it.

He makes himself forget about the food and busies himself with greeting Matthew instead. He staggers along on his crutches and embraces Matt as best as he can with only one usable leg, and Matt squeezes him tightly, getting all teary-eyed and sappy.

"It's so good to have you back," Matthew says with a sniffle, beside himself. "I've missed you like crazy."

Alfred grins and takes in every detail of his twin's figure and face, reminding himself of all of the things that are so uniquely Matthew and not completely identical to him. "It's good to be back. I've missed you, too. There are a whole bunch of movies, TV shows, and video games that I have to catch up on, so I need you. Who else is going to watch Korean dramas with me?"

From beside them, Arthur scoffs with amusement while Matthew laughs and hugs Alfred twice as hard as he did the first time around. It's difficult for either of them to let go, but they manage it after another minute passes.

"And Winston! How could I forget about my favorite cat in the world?" Matthew suddenly remembers, strolling over to the couch before lifting a sleep-dazed Winston into his arms and cradling him like an oversized baby. "How are you doing?"

" _Mreeeh_ ," Winston mewls, not even mustering up a proper meow.

"He's been struggling with his new diet," Arthur informs as he's picking up Matthew's bags. "Oh, I hope you don't mind sharing the guestroom with Alfred."

Matthew nods his head cordially, never one to complain. "That's fine, thanks. And I'm sure Winston will warm up to his new food soon enough."

"I am doubtful," Arthur says as he brings the luggage upstairs. He returns a moment later and begins setting the kitchen table for their takeout dinner.

Once all of the plates have been set out and the food is laid out in trays before them, Alfred takes a little bit of everything that looks like it'll be easy on his stomach and sits down, pleading with all of his might that his body will cooperate with him for at least one full night.

Everyone follows his lead and begins to eat. Matthew looks like he wants to say something about the war, but he seems uncertain about how well his prodding will be received, and so, he settles on talking about how things are going in school instead. Then, he asks if Alfred's been feeling all right since the accident on the stairs, upon which point, Alfred explains to him again and again he's okay and on the mend.

"I can't remember the last time we all had dinner like this," Matthew adds, getting all sappy and gushy once more. "It's nice to have the family together."

Arthur makes a sound of agreement, and Alfred reluctantly offers a nod. It's been an emotional few weeks, and Alfred's not sure how he's made it this far.

"Do you know when you're planning to go back to New York, Alfred?" Matthew continues, full of exuberance and a desire to take part in all of the small talk that they've been missing out on for months.

No more talk of wounds, deployments, and safety. No more worrying if they will see each other again and choosing each word as though it will be the last one they ever share.

"I don't know," Alfred murmurs honestly. He hasn't been thinking about his trip home anymore. He's been more concerned with everything else that's been going on.

"Well, you're welcome to stay as long as you need to. There's no need to rush," Arthur jumps in quickly. "I would suggest you remain here at least until you have full mobility of your leg again."

"But that might take another month, and I can't expect you to put up with me for that long," Alfred replies with a small, uneasy laugh. "I'll get around fine on my own. Don't worry."

For good reasons, Arthur doesn't seem convinced. The man exchanges a look with Matthew, and they seem to have their own silent conversation.

Alfred hates it when they do that.

"Maybe you should stay a while longer, Al, just to make sure you're not jumping into things too fast," Matthew says.

"I'll think about it."

Arthur gives a satisfied nod and changes the subject, delving into a conversation revolving around Matthew and his recent love interest back in Canada.

Once again, Alfred appreciates Arthur's efforts to minimize the spotlight that otherwise would've been aimed at him all evening.

When it's high time for bed, Alfred and Matthew come to a mutual agreement to sleep in the same bed together just like when they were kids. It's nostalgic, and Alfred isn't against it in any way, but he does worry for a moment or two (or a hundred) he'll have a nightmare and end up in a thrashing fit. However, the cards seem to be in his favor lately because he gets a full eight hours of sleep without interruption.

Perhaps having Matthew around has calmed him for the time being.

It's better that Matthew doesn't know all of the nitty gritty details of his condition. If he did, it wouldn't help solve anything, and Alfred would be left to fend off his brother's constant nagging.

In the morning, he gets up before Matthew (surprisingly enough) and heads straight for the kitchen, hoping to catch Arthur before work and have breakfast with him. He makes it just in time, and although he'd really prefer to have something better than plain yogurt and fruit, he doesn't complain and eats what is offered to him. He has learned that sticking precisely to his meal plan usually makes him feel less bloated and terrible by the end of the day.

"Would you really be okay with me staying here?" he asks, biting his lip. "After sleeping on the idea, I was thinking maybe you and Mattie were right. I... I don't think I'm ready to head back to New York yet, especially since I'll be on my own."

Arthur smiles gently over the rim of a mug of tea and says, "Of course it's all right. The offer still stands."

"I might have to take you up on it then."

"Not a problem. However, if you do decide to stay here for a while longer, I'm going to have a few extra expectations I'd like you to meet."

Typical. There's no way Arthur would make him such a nice offer without wanting something in return.

"What do I have to do?"

"I don't want you to sit in the house all day. It's enough to test anyone's patience. I've been looking into a few workshops you might be interested in attending," Arthur says before reaching into one of the kitchen's drawers, pulling out a pamphlet, and offering it to Alfred.

Swallowing hard, Alfred looks down at the piece of paper and groans when his suspicions of his elder brother's motives are confirmed. "You want me to join a veterans' support group and talk about my problems? That's dumb. I don't need—"

Arthur clicks his tongue and cuts him off. "I'm only asking that you give it a chance. Go to one meeting, and if you don't like it, you don't have to go back again. If you're going to stay here, you need to show up to at least one session."

"Maybe I like sitting in the house all day."

"I know that's not true," Arthur retorts with a huff. "The only reason you don't go out more often is because you're afraid it'll trigger a panic attack, not because you're suddenly a homebody."

He's right, as usual, but Alfred isn't about to admit defeat without putting up some resistance. "Don't I go through enough therapy with you?"

"One-to-one sessions are different from group meetings. You'll also learn some coping skills you can use when you go home. This won't hurt you. It can only help."

"Ughhhh."

"Yes, yes, whine and groan all you want, but I've made my position clear. I'm not asking much of you."

Alfred frowns. "Yeah, you are… But fine, I'll go to _one_ meeting."

And so, it's settled. After another day of their abrupt reunion, Matthew announces he'll be going back to Canada. He has an internship to go back to, and a potential girlfriend waiting for him, and although Alfred would love to hear more of the details regarding his love life and has been dying for some juicy gossip, he comes up empty-handed and is disappointed when he has to say goodbye to his twin without being properly satiated with information.

They make ardent promises to see each other again soon, and Alfred compliantly agrees to call Matthew in a few days' time to update him on all of the happenings going down across the pond. Arthur sees him off to the airport once again, and Alfred feels a little less tense now that he can allow himself to be openly sick if the need arises without stressing over whether or not Matthew will find out about it.

"You handled the situation well," Arthur praises him later that night. "You stuck to my recommendations and didn't relapse."

"It doesn't mean I still won't."

"No, but it's a good sign of things to come, hopefully."

Alfred doesn't cross his fingers. He has come to expect failure.

* * *

Navy, Marines, Army, Air Force—veterans from all divisions and backgrounds are there at the meeting Alfred drags his feet to. He sits down in the chair closest to the corner of the room as to have a good view of everyone and does his best to blend in and avoid being the target of any questions for as long as possible.

Unfortunately for him, the counselor hosting the session is a firm believer in equal opportunity and goes around from one person to another, making sure everyone gets a turn to speak, meaning that Alfred is obligated to participate lest he wants to be perceived as rude or difficult.

They go around introducing themselves first, and then, they're each asked to share one thing that never fails to make them happy, even when times are tough.

When it's Alfred's turn, he runs his tongue around his parched mouth a few times, tries to pretend he's talking to Arthur during one of their rounds of therapy rather than a group of relative strangers, and says, "Closing my eyes and feeling the warmth of the sun on my face always makes me feel happier. When I was overseas, sometimes the heat could get so bad I felt like I was going to drop dead in the sand, but if I was able to just shut my eyes and think about the light shining on me and how the feeling of warmth on my skin was a sign I was alive and well, it didn't seem so hot anymore."

A few men and women nod their heads along to what he says or make hums of approval and encouragement. Then, the next person goes ahead and shares how he always keeps a picture of his three children in his breast-pocket no matter where he goes.

There's a pattern in everyone's answers. All of the things they claim to find joy in are simple and would seem boring or only half-interesting at best to most people. They talk about writing letters to family, having a good cup of coffee, cloud-watching, eating a hearty meal, and so on. Alfred supposes the reason for this is that serving in the military teaches one to appreciate the tiny moments of peace and beauty throughout the day. It doesn't take much to please them.

They don't talk about the state of being in war so much as what it's like to be back. For some, even going to the grocery store has become a sudden culture shock. Even though all of Alfred's experiences stem from being in the American military as opposed to those of these British veterans, their stories and concerns seem to be almost exactly the same.

Before long, he gets to know everyone's names and feels comfortable sitting in their little circle. It's like their own social club.

"How did it go?" Arthur asks over dinner. He has finally upgraded Alfred to food with light seasoning on it.

Trying not to sound too pleased, Alfred puts on what he hopes is a neutral, nonchalant expression. "It was fine."

"Will you go to the next meeting, then?"

"Well, I might as well. It's not like I have anything better to do," he huffs in between a forkful of sweet peas.

Arthur sees right through his masquerade and smiles smugly. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

Really, _how_ does he do that?

* * *

After much back and forth bickering and Alfred insisting that he wants an _American_ doctor to take off his cast, Arthur somehow manages to pull him down to the hospital yet again to have his limb freed while in London. It's a quick ordeal, and upon enduring one last x-ray and another assessment, an old, wrinkly doctor with thick-rimmed glasses deems his leg fully mended.

The cast finally comes off, and Alfred is beyond grateful to have two working legs again. Of course, the skin around the area is sore as hell, and he can feel the difference in the strength of one leg over the other, but he doesn't let this dampen his high spirits. He's given orders to take it easy with physical activity for another two weeks, and then he's on his way, elated by the fact he doesn't have to lug himself around on awful crutches anymore.

He's so elated, in fact, that he takes the first opportunity to stretch his legs by running toward Arthur's car on their way out of the hospital and back to the house, much to the man's chagrin.

After all, life's too short to take it easy, Alfred reasons.

And now that he's able to physically do all of the things he needs to do to function on his own, he starts making plans to go back to New York at long last, feeling more than a bit homesick after being away for almost an extra two months.

Arthur begrudgingly agrees it's time for Alfred to consider crossing the Atlantic again, and although he looks like he'd very much rather dote over Alfred longer, he knows he can't. Alfred hasn't had a panic attack in weeks, the nightmares have plummeted in frequency, and although his diet isn't ideal, it's on the road to getting back where it used to be.

Alfred books a flight for the following week, and when the day of parting comes, he finds himself standing next to Arthur at the airport, waiting to be called to his gate.

"You know, I have this irrational fear that I won't get to see you again," Arthur admits very quietly.

It's funny how after nearly eight weeks of inhabiting the same space together and of Arthur coaching Alfred through therapy, the older man is only now allowing himself to let down his guard.

The significance of the moment isn't lost on Alfred. He bats his eyelashes at Arthur in astonishment and says as warmly as he possibly can, "I'll be back. Don't worry. I'll come and visit in a few months, and I'll give you call every now and then."

Something contracts in Arthur's throat as he says, "And you'll notify me if your condition worsens?"

"Of course."

"You won't allow yourself to relapse without seeking help?"

"No," Alfred reassures before deciding now is a good time to give his elder brother a hug. "Thanks for everything you've done for me, but I need to figure things out by myself now."

"Right, certainly."

"You'll be the first to know if something's going on."

Arthur nods and appears a little calmer. He returns the hug, and as he does, Alfred's gate is called over the intercom system.

"Guess this is goodbye for now," Alfred smiles sadly.

Arthur squeezes his shoulder and says, "Please, take care of yourself."

"I will."

"And stay safe."

"Yup."

"Come here," Arthur orders firmly before yanking Alfred into one last hug. "I expect to hear from you soon."

Alfred grins into his big brother's shoulder and lets out a happy sigh. "Same here. Tell Winston to be a good cat while I'm gone."

Arthur snorts with a chuckle. "I'll try, but you know how he is."

"Yeah, I know," Alfred laughs as well, cheeks glowing with content. He picks up his carry-on bag and saunters down to where other travelers are getting in line. Once he's a good distance away, he gives Arthur a little wave from afar and beams at him with another smile before turning his back toward him again.

He's stronger now. The worst is over.

He boards his plane, finds his seat, leans back, and promises himself he'll grab a slice of pizza as soon as he lands in New York. It might be considered deviating from his meal plan, but he's sure he can make an exception for today.

He has earned it.


End file.
